


Cold

by slytherfoot



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Fluff, GET IT, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulative Bill Cipher, Pining, Possession, Pre-Portal, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, also, also for science, basically bill uses fiddleford's crush against him, bill ruins everything, bill!ford, fiddauthor - Freeform, fiddauthor week 2.0, fiddauthorweek, fiddauthorweek 2.0, fiddleford is manipulated by bill oops, for like 2 seconds, for science, handjobs, okay I'm done bye, seriously i'm so sorry fiddleford, tbh, to fuck up his life so stan will stop gushing about him, while there's hints of billford it really is a fiddauthor fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherfoot/pseuds/slytherfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For FiddAuthor Week 2.0 Day 4: Angst.</p>
<p>Stanford has made his deal with Bill, though unresolved tension between him and Fiddleford makes the shack an epicentre of conflict. Of course, not even a centuries old project in the works could stop Bill from interfering with such a fun game. (Prompt I came up with at 4AM: Bill possesses Stanford in order to impersonate him and bring all of Fiddleford’s hidden feelings for Stanford bubbling to the surface before leaving Stanford suddenly to deal with the mess).</p>
<p>AUish where Fiddleford has no idea about the portal and just wants to do science but Bill fucks up everything anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

 

For a while now, there had been a lot of tension in the shack. There’d always been a bit of token awkwardness between Stanford and Fiddleford, though with the cold tendrils of winter confining them to a drought in their studies, the twiddling-thumb atmosphere was starting to take its toll.

They’d wake up every morning (Stanford at the crack of dawn, if not earlier, Fiddleford being more of sleep-in-till-nine kind of man) and check the weather to see if they could venture out to the forest, to conduct research, to get some space, to do _anything_. Alas, today being just like most other had been, the two were restricted to sit at the dining room table, feeling the chill of either winter or each other’s discomfort. Most days it was hard to tell the difference, if there was any at all.

There wasn’t some big, definitive event that made the difference. There never really is, with this sort of thing. The best way one could describe it, with maybe more than a little influence from their exterior conditions, was a snowball, rolling and rolling, snow accumulating and clinging like unsuspecting insects to honey.

 So _yes_ , maybe there was a little more thought given to what could keep the two of them warm besides blankets and lonesome shivering than a usual scientific duo. Not that it meant anything. Stanford was pretty adamant on his sweaters. He didn’t need anything else.

Fiddleford, on the other hand, felt like he was one night away from freezing to death with a fire just out of reach.

He was always… out… of reach…

He’d like to say it hadn’t always been this way. He’d like to say that he had a life outside of Stanford Pines and this crazy shack full of mysteries. But the truth is, Fiddleford hadn’t felt more alive than when he and Stanford worked together. When they began their companionship at Backupsmore University, Fiddleford felt for the first time a bridge between his work and his identity, and saw who he could be. In particular, who he could be _with Stanford_. When they graduated, Fiddleford knew in retrospect that he had practically died, and remained in that state of passivity until Stanford had contacted him and wisped him on into the woods. Fiddleford thought he knew how this ended. He didn’t know a lot about relationships with anyone, let alone men, though the few novels he had confiscated glimpses of from unnamed sources gave him a pretty clear perspective on the outcome of when someone asks you to move into a cabin in the woods with him (and no, not the one with death).

So he did – he packed up his life, closed “ _Fiddleford Computermajigs_ ” and moved away from everything he had ever known. This was before he knew he’d never see any of it again.

This was also before he knew about Bill.

He didn’t know when Bill had entered Stanford’s life, though he’d never forget when Bill entered his own.

In a timeline of it all, Fiddleford would say there was one day in particular that sparked his involvement – it was still summer, just a few weeks away from the cusp of fall – when Fiddleford went into the basement to confer with Stanford about some details with a shapeshifter they had found. He didn’t expect to be interrupting anything important.

That’s when he saw Stanford’s eyes.

He thought it was a trick of the light. Probably some projection of all the crazy things they’d been researching and documenting over the last few months. It couldn’t possibly mean anything more than that. It… it couldn’t.

Before he could panic, not a moment later, Stanford looked up to him; eyes back to normal, if not just a little hectic. Fiddleford tried not to think much of it – it’d been a crazy summer, after all.

“Oh, sorry, I was just… just looking at some of the notes, and…” Fiddleford looked between the paper mass he was holding and Stanford’s dishearteningly uninterested features, “I-It’s okay though, I think I figured it out. I’ll… I’ll be upstairs,” and with that, he turned and left before there was time for Stanford to respond.

That night, Fiddleford went to bed without saying goodnight to Stanford, and for a whole week found himself plagued by a nightmare of him suspended in this greyscale space, not being able to move, staring into those eyes. They were yellow, with a vertical slit. When not distracted by the trance the aforementioned image set him in, Fiddleford woke up swearing that he had also heard a continuous, monotonous laugh.

At the end of that week, Fiddleford was on edge. Rightfully so, one may say, though nonetheless the lack of communication between him and the subject of his demons was beginning to affect their work. They were outside, just on the outskirts of the forest (it was as far as they could get with the atrocious conditions that Gravity Falls’ winter brought), when Stanford sighed and set down his pen and (frozen) soil sample.

“Alright, Fiddleford, what’s wrong?” Stanford asked, making Fiddleford jump and almost drop his clipboard into the snow. Stanford paused, though elected to carry on anyway, “You’ve been more isolated than _me_ these past few days, which is saying something. I’m starting to worry,” Stanford frowned, features genuine. Fiddleford began to sweat a little bit, fingers trembling – he tried to fool himself that it was because of the cold. He clutched his clipboard to stop this action, his knuckles contrasting against the bright pink of his exposed skin by flaring white.

“I-It’s nothing, I’m just – just a little tired, is all. We don’t… take a lot of vacations in this line of work…” Fiddleford rambled off, not having bullshitted this hard since his sophomore midterm thesis. He didn’t doubt that Stanford knew this.

“Oh, alright… well, we can take the rest of the day off, if you want? Tonight we can watch a movie or something. I know how much you like movies!” Stanford suggested with a smirk, and Fiddleford chuckled towards the dirt, a little frazzled, though it must have passed well as embarrassment, for Stanford seemed satisfied by the answer enough to drop it.

And so that’s what they did. They set their notes and samples aside on the dining table, removed their winter clothing, and Fiddleford decided maybe a nap would do him well. Of course, it was harder to put his mind at ease once he saw Stanford slink off the basement once more when he thought Fiddleford had already returned to the attic. Against every instinct he had, every bit of curiosity or worry, every part of him that made him proud to call himself Stanford’s friend, Fiddleford forced himself to push all thoughts aside and seclude himself to his bed. Of course, such a quarantine of thought meant all possibilities, good, bad or otherwise, forced themselves into a hazed, chaotic nightmare – daymare? – though it didn’t matter, because whether awake or dreaming (using the term loosely), the ideas of what awful things Stanford could be up to plagued his conscience.

“Fiddleford!” Fiddleford awoke in an instant; every memory of the nightmare he had just endured escaped him, leaving him sweaty and even more tired than when he had lain down. He looked up and saw Stanford looking down at him, vexed and holding his shoulders. He must have woken him.

“I heard you screaming,” Stanford said anxiously, and Fiddleford couldn’t do anything but maintain eye contact and wish he could remember anything. If anything, simply so he could find more patterns to end this curse of restless nights (and afternoons, apparently).

“Oh. I’m sorry, Stanford. I’m fine, really – I don’t even remember what it was about,” he replied, honestly. Fiddleford realized that he was shaking slightly, though, the effects of the dream still taxing him, whether there were memories of it or not. He watched as Stanford’s apprehension remained etched into his features, though his edges softened, and he pat Fiddleford’s shoulder.

“Alright, well, it’s evening now, so we should get that movie started, if you want?” he suggested, grinning sympathetically. Fiddleford nodded, beginning to push himself to the edge of the bed and onto his feet.

“Yeah. Yes, that sounds like a plan to me.”  


***********************

 

Fiddleford didn’t bother to check what movie Stanford had chosen as he sat down, a bucket of popcorn propped up against the chesterfield as he leaned against it. He certainly didn’t bother to figure out, either, as once Stanford sat down beside him, any interest in the movie dissipating as Stanford wrapped his hand around Fiddleford’s shoulder, pulling him into the crevice of his torso. Fiddleford felt himself freeze up, before slowly melting into the embrace. Fiddleford felt his eyes become heavy, half-lidded from exhaustion and the comfort of his position. He was ready to sleep when he felt himself being pulled from his seated position further to the floor, lying down next to Stanford.

Another arm snaked its way around him, this time around his waist, and Fiddleford gasped slightly (though quietly enough, he hoped, for it to go unnoticed). He was pulled closer into Stanford’s chest, so gently that he wasn’t sure if Stanford knew he was still awake. Their legs tangled, and Fiddleford’s head was propped gently under Stanford’s chin, and he felt him sigh out contently.

Did this mean what Fiddleford thought (or, really, _wanted_ ) it to mean? Did Stanford want this kind of relationship? This kind of intimacy? Of course, Fiddleford would have lots of time to think about this. For now, he figured, he better enjoy this. This soothing embrace, the reassurance that Stanford’s hands gave him, the strength he felt in being protected in such a way by the man he… _loved_.

They fell asleep that way, neither knowing truly what the other was thinking, though sharing their vulnerability like a blanket, limbs entangled and feelings just as much so.

 

***********************

 

There would come a point when they would have to talk about it, of course. All of it – the basement, the eyes, the nightmares, the movie night – Fiddleford just didn’t expect the confrontation to come _the next day_.

“Fidds… I think we need to talk,” he mumbled none too encouragingly. Fiddleford’s heart stopped. Was this about last night? Did he regret it? Or, worse, did he… know? Oh, god. Fiddleford had been able to keep it together, to manage his façade, for _years_ , and one night – _one night_ – was all it took for Fiddleford to ruin everything. He would probably have to go back to Palo Alto, try to restart his business, every day dying a little more, though worse, for now there would be a part of him destroyed beyond repair–

“There’s… someone else,” Stanford’s eyes were downcast, unable to even hide his shame from the man opposite to him. Fiddleford didn’t even know how to process this information.

The first thing he could think was – oh, _god_. This was worse. He didn’t think it could be worse but now it was, infinitely so. Because now, the way he said it _, he knew_ how Fiddleford felt about him, though it didn’t matter. How had he found out? He didn’t even initiate the cuddling! He hadn’t ever initiated anything because he knew that it would mean ruining this – ruining _everything_. Though now, somehow, it had happened anyway. His place in the shack – his sanction was soon to be tainted by someone _else_ , someone _better_ , someone Stanford could _actually_ love.

“Oh,” Fiddleford managed, surprised he was able to say anything at all, “Oh… _Oh_.” Fiddleford wanted nothing more than to leave. To slink into the shadows. To run away into the forest and wait until he became something worse than what their journals, their years of hard work, described. But he couldn’t – for he was stuck, staring into Stanford’s eyes. He damned himself for always being the often neglected _freeze_ component of the fight or flight equation. Suddenly, he watched Stanford’s face warp into one of understanding.

“Oh – oh no, not like… _well_ , no – ah, _wait_ , let me just…” Stanford blushed, fingers (those damn fingers) running through his hair, face contorting into one of embarrassment. “Please, let me explain,” Stanford finally composed himself, while Fiddleford, breaking down inside, braved his decomposing structure and sat, eyes boring into Stanford’s once more.

“His name is Bill.” And that’s when everything began to go wrong.

Stanford began explaining, words jumbling together – Fiddleford probably wouldn’t have caught everything, even if he _was_ paying full attention to the man. But no, instead, Fiddleford felt himself drawn into the blur between his nightmares and reality, the atmosphere feeling more similar to that greyscale scape than he had felt since the dreams began. He heard bits and pieces.

_“I’m a prodigy – he tells me he_ needs _me, Fiddleford. How can I refuse?”_

_“It’s my duty to help. He… he thinks I’m a genius. That I’m the only one who can help.”_

_“I can change the world, Fiddleford. This is my chance to_ finally _make a difference!”_

_“He says… I’m important to him.”_

“What’s that supposed to _mean_?” Fiddleford finally snapped. Stanford looked up at him and blinked, obviously confused. Fiddleford felt his hands ball into fists, and he steeled himself against the chair, barely able to ground his feet to stop him from standing and pushing himself forward – or away, he wasn’t sure.

“Do you think you’re not important to _me_? Is the work we do _here_ – the work you _brought_ me here to do – not making a difference? The things we see, Stanford – together – are they not good enough for you?” he was spitting now, not caring as his voice rose and rose. Stanford began to look afraid, knowing the damage he was only beginning to bring.

“No – _no_ , that’s _not what I mean_! This work I’m doing with Bill, it’s simply an _extension_ of what we do – your work is still important! Please, maybe he would explain it better–“

“ _No_ ,” Fiddleford interrupted, stern but shaking, “No, I think I see what this is. Stanford, you don’t have to dumb it down for me just because you’re oh-so- _smart_ and _prodigal_. You could have just told me you didn’t want to work together, that’d you’d rather be alone – or with someone else – whatever! Between this and the basement, these _lies_ , I can’t believe you made me come all the way out here for me to waste my time.”

“The basement?” Stanford looked perplexed for a moment before his eyes widened in horrific understanding, “Oh, no, Fiddleford, please – you have to let me explain–“

“I don’t want to listen to you!” Fiddleford yelled, beginning to walk swiftly to the door – out, out and _away from this godforsaken town!_

“ _Then how about you give me a try_?” Fiddleford froze. The voice. It was the voice. Not the exact tone or pitch, but the echo – the edges of each vowel and consonant – it was the same as the laughing. The _laughing_.

“We haven’t been formally introduced,” Fiddleford turned, slow at first, as if worried that any sudden movements would result in his immediate demise. “The name’s Bill,” and there stood Stanford, his friend Stanford, though an absolute stranger. His form, his composure, radiated a confidence Fiddleford had never seen in his colleague. He had a certain unprecedented swagger that intimidated Fiddleford, and made him feel so very, very small. Stanford – no, this, this _creature_ , released a smirk that made his vessel flash his teeth, looking sharper than humanly possible. “Bill Cipher.” His voice had been assimilated, as if Stanford, his Stanford, was being brutally entombed by this being… this… this _demon_.

“What’s… what’s that supposed to – who are – _what have you done with Stanford?_ ” Fiddleford stumbled, barely even trying to recollect his words. This was beyond his comprehension. He just wanted Stanford back.

“Stanford? Don’t worry, Sixer’s still in here. I’m just… renting the joint, so to say,” Bill chuckled, his sinister mannerisms hefting his shoulder’s, obviously still getting used to maneuvering such a being.

“You’re… you’re _possessing_ him?” Fiddleford gasped, not even bothering to contain his concern. Stanford – no, _Bill_ – noticed this, though decided he had to juggle his priorities.

“It’s not possession with _consent_ , Old Man McGucket,” and with that, Fiddleford eyes widened with shock, concern, betrayal – he wasn’t sure, though he knew it couldn’t be true. He didn’t even register the nickname, it didn’t matter – this was all a trick. Stanford must have accidentally gotten in contact with some creature they hadn’t documented yet – it was the only way!

“You’re lying to me. Stanford would _never_ –“

“Never _what_?” Bill drawled, obviously having fun with this entire situation, “Never risk possession? Never risk, well, anything _at all_? Never make a sacrifice for the pursuit of knowledge? Never _strive for greatness_? Never do this to _himself_?” Bill began listing off on his – no, Standford’s fingers – Fiddleford briefly remembered the nickname. “Or is it really that you believe he’d never do this to _you_?” Fiddleford froze, feeling the colour drain out of his face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he gulped slightly.

“Oh _come on_ , I’ve been around for a while now – just because Sixer can’t notice – or won’t admit, rather – your total infatuation doesn’t mean _I_ can’t!” Bill cackled, moving forward slightly to jab Fiddleford in the chest. He hadn’t noticed that they’d gotten closer. Fiddleford felt as if he could faint.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re colleagues – _friends_ at most-“ Fiddleford began to explain, though Bill was simply shaking his head.

“Is that the lie you tell yourself? Considering how long you’ve been _pining_ -“ Bill’s eyes creased with the joke “-over this slab of meat, I figured you’d’ve come up with something better.”

“W-Why are you doing this?” Fiddleford began to panic and he felt his voice shake, though he wasn’t going to allow himself to get upset – to _cry_ – in front of this, this _thing_.

“Because it’s _fun_!” Stanford’s arms shot up unnaturally fast and Bill cackled, “And because I needed help with a project I’ve been working on for a couple centuries and Stanford is the right combination of intelligent and _gullible_ to help me make ends meet!” Bill continued, stalled only by Fiddleford’s glare. “Oh come on, you’ve gotta understand, it’s hard being a dream demon and trying to get stuff done in the tangible world-“

“Wait, dream demon?” Fiddleford interrupted at last, “That was _you_?” he spat, finally advancing a step to get in Bill’s face. Unperturbed, Bill (Stanford?) still took a step back with a shrug.

 “Of _course_ it was me!”

“…Does Stanford know you’ve been doing this to me?” Fiddleford asked tentatively, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. Bill’s gold eyes flickered with interest – Fiddleford couldn’t look away.

“Well, not quite, but he should have known what he was signing up for – seriously though, he’s been fretting about you all week. It’s hilarious!” Bill gave another toothy grin. Fiddleford bowed his head, not sure what to believe – how did he know this demon was telling the truth? How could he know when Stanford had been telling the truth – how could he know if he ever had?

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Fiddleford mumbled, almost to himself, though of course Bill took it upon himself to answer, whether it was a rhetorical question or not.

“Because he needed _my_ permission, not yours!” he guffawed, “Anyway, I’m not here to deal with a soap opera – not yet, anyway. You guys obviously have a lot to talk about – wouldn’t want to interfere, of course!” and with that, it seemed like he vanished. Stanford didn’t look any different, though his demeanor seemed to shift, eyes blinking the yellow fragments away and shoulders slouching once more. Stanford – and it _was_ Stanford this time – finally made eye contact with Fiddleford, eyes – his real eyes – filled with dread.

“What happened?” he asked, innocently enough. It almost hurt more; knowing that Ford had no idea what he had gotten into. That he apparently had no idea who Bill really was, and what he was doing. Fiddleford hadn’t take note of his actions until he realized that he had turned away from his colleague, continuing his trek outside, away, away, _away_. “Fiddleford? Oh god, what did he say?” Fiddleford heard Stanford’s voice begin to quicken, catching on that something was wrong – well, _more_ wrong, of course, than anyone could deny it already was. “Fidd-“

Fiddleford slammed the door behind him, trudging off into the woods. He didn’t care that the wind was biting him, weaving its way into his underdressed garb. The cold, the _pain_ , it was nothing compared to what he felt in terms of betrayal. All he could do was wait until he went numb.

 

***********************

 

He decided he had to keep working. He couldn’t just abandon everything now. Plus, he had to help Stanford. He couldn’t believe the man was doing this out of his own free will. There was another explanation. There had to be.

Of course he tried to bring it up with Stanford, but he wasn’t having any of it. It was like he was under some sort of spell, seduced by the coos of the demon drawing him, slowly wrapping his coils around his victim as if Stanford were a mouse and Bill like a snake. Except in this analogy, the mouse is in love with the snake. _Oh_ , Fiddleford thought. _No, you’re just overthinking this_. He drummed his fingers on his desk, biting his lip in pensive thought, before forcing himself to shake the idea away. _There’s no way Stanford would_ love _such a thing_.

But then the way Stanford would _talk_ about him. Like he was just _smitten_ by the thought that this demon thought of him as a prodigy. As his equal.

“He’s _lying to you_ , Stanford! He said you were gullible and that he was just _using_ you-“ Fiddleford would try, though usually Stanford would wave him off. One time, though, he snapped.

“ _Enough_ , Fiddleford! Bill would never do that to me. He’s one of the kindest beings I’ve ever met – he would never betray me like that. I think the problem isn’t Bill, Fiddleford. It’s you,” Stanford spat at Fiddleford, turning hot on his heels and ducking out of the office they had been sharing. They were simply going over old reports. It was supposed to be a well-intended day of teamwork and reminiscence of the good things they had accomplished. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

None of it was supposed to end this way.

That night Fiddleford couldn’t sleep. He was tossing and turning. All he could think about was Bill. Bill Bill Bill. He was starting to become as obsessed as Stanford. But not in the same way. Never in the same way. All he could think about was the fight he and Stanford had – _all_ the fights they had been having, recently. And more so, how they would usually be able to get over it. They would be able to move on. But that night, during dinner, they sat across from each other. Fiddleford was expecting an apology – Stanford _always_ started it. It was this way because Fiddleford would always apologize – even if he didn’t know what for, so in order for them have any resolve, Stanford had to initiate it, to sort out the situation.

But he didn’t.

Instead, they sat at the dining table in silence. The scrape of utensils was the only thing noise breaking the tension, thick enough that not even their most powerful laser could cut through it. Fiddleford scoffed. Maybe it was because Bill would always be able to whip up a fog greater. More powerful. More splendid and impressive in every way. And Fiddleford would be no match.

He set down his fork and sighed. He never would be.

Fiddleford looked up to Stanford, deciding that he was going to say something. He couldn’t fight with Stanford forever. In the very least, it was affecting their work. Though in honesty, it was beginning to break Fiddleford’s heart.

However, when Fiddleford made eye contact with Stanford, his grip tightened on the table. Stanford was not there.

“Sorry Oldie, Sixer’s not available at the moment. Come back later,” and with a wink, Stanford – _Bill_ – picked up his plate and dumped it unceremoniously in the sink. Fiddleford winced – he knew the plate was probably broken, it being one of the last untouched by Bill. Bill always apologized to Stanford (allegedly), saying he simply hadn’t mastered human mechanics yet. However, the way that Bill swaggered his way back to the basement, curling and uncurling his fingers as if testing his ventriloquism from the puppet up, Fiddleford knew the truth.

Bill was wanting to leave little metaphors – hints, if you will – around the house, little droppings in every aspect of Fiddleford’s life as to remind him that he was there for one thing only – to destroy Fiddleford’s life as he knew it, to shatter it into little pieces until there was nothing left.

Fiddleford felt his own fist clench. He knew it wasn’t just him, though. Bill was set on destroying the world. Crushing every part of it under his borrowed grip until he could own the ground he walked on just as unfairly. He was sure that if everything went accordingly to Bill’s plan, Stanford would never even have to know his betrayal.

Fiddleford ran his fingers through his hair. No, actually. Part of his success would probably be relishing in Stanford’s ignorance. Staring into a mirror as he told him the ways of his success and of Stanford’s idiocy, as human as it was. Oh so god damn human.

That’s why Fiddleford could never blame him. Of course, the fact that Stanford was the man he loved was definitely a contributing factor, though Fiddleford knew that Stanford was simply doing what any one would probably do in his position. Though he hated himself for it, Fiddleford had thought a long while about how if it were him, he couldn’t confidently say he wouldn’t have shaken hands with Bill himself.

 

***********************

 

Stanford was spending more and more time in the basement. Fiddleford only saw him in the very early hours of the morning or very late at night, as Stanford spent his time – all of his time – in the basement with Bill. Sometimes he heard him in the middle of the night too, working frantically. He could hear Stanford dashing around the basement, the occasional book falling and curses ringing through the old cabin. It kept him awake, though he knew he was still fairing far better fatigue wise.

When Fiddleford did see his partner – which, as a reminder, was very sparingly – Stanford looked exhausted. His eyes drooped, his shoulders sagged. Fiddleford’s heart rolled its way down his torso as he realized, eyes combing around his hairline, that Stanford had lost the bet of “who would get the first grey hair because of _science_?”  Though seeing his friend age in front of him, seeing the passion he once had for the subject ooze out of him along with the rest of him as Bill slowly took control, Fiddleford knew that what they were doing wasn’t science. It was witchcraft – a bold statement from someone who had met witches himself. An even bolder one from someone who had attempted magic – and was willing to it again and more – anything to stop this age of tyranny.

When Fiddleford tried to mention this, though, when he tried to suggest maybe sleeping upstairs again, or a movie night even, he was brushed off. No, that’s too kind. He was swatted away like an annoying fruit fly. Or, rather, an ant, who was trying to get his way into the food that was not meant for him – that was meant for someone far superior. “Stop worrying, Fiddleford. You wouldn’t understand. Leave me alone.” Fiddleford was beginning to think he couldn’t bear it anymore. But no, he had to, _he had to_ , for Stanford. For the _world_.

It was the occasional flicker, though, that kept driving him to the edge. When Stanford _would_ look at him, or _would_ sit down for breakfast with him (which only happened once), when things could, if only for a second, feel normal again. It was then that Stanford’s eyes would flicker for a moment – one so brief Fiddleford didn’t think Stanford even noticed – it was then that he would be reminded that their every move, every moment of domesticity, was being surveyed. Fiddleford wondered if Stanford knew that part of the deal. He wondered how honest Bill could be about his true motives – whatever they were – with Stanford before he broke off. Fiddleford’s jaw clenched. Actually, he worried about this. Did he know already? Everything Bill was doing – had he been forced to surrender to it? Or had he gave himself over willingly, leaving behind everything – leaving behind Fiddleford. Would Stanford die for Bill? Had he already?

Fiddleford had begun working independently of their original cause, more and more time being devoted to studies of the demon, though he found it harder to focus – was it because of worry? Or because he was beginning to feel the words of insignificance truly sting – like they really were coming from Stanford, and not his “roommate.” Did he really feel as if the work Stanford was doing – right, _forced_ to do – was more important – fatally, hysterically more important, than that of his own? Would his work – traditional or practices of late – even _matter_? Fiddleford growled and shook the thought. _No_. This doubt was _exactly_ what Bill wanted. _No_ , he thought again, pushing himself from his desk to his bed. He would continue working. He wouldn’t let himself be compromised. He wouldn’t let Bill get control over him as well.

It’s quite sad, really, how wrong he was.

 

***********************

 

This went on for weeks more. Winter was still bitter and all work was brought to a grinding halt. Fiddleford hadn’t been able to find anything on how to stop Bill’s plan. Instead, he had resorted to other alternatives to pass time – doodling. Fiddleford hated it. He hated not being able to do anything. But he knew he couldn’t let himself study forever – _you’re going to go insane_ , he reminded himself. Looking down at his sketchbook, though, he frowned, _maybe you have already_.

Different shapes, sizes, different colours and styles from toddler to commissionable artist, all overlapping – pages upon pages, of _eyes_.

He began to cross them out, one by one.

 

***********************

 

It was one day, one of the bitterest days of winter he had seen in Gravity Falls, that it happened.

Stanford came up from the basement. It was late. Fiddleford was usually in bed by this time. When they made eye contact and Stanford looked surprised, Fiddleford sighed at the thought that maybe he knew this.

He got up from the table where he had been sitting with his sketchbook, closing it and beginning to march back to his room.

“Fiddleford, wait.”

Fiddleford paused for a moment, before sighing and turning back to the man. After all of it, after everything, he turned back, to his friend. To his _best_ friend.

“What, Stanford?” he asked, though more in the way of a statement. Fiddleford was tired. He had started looking for ways out of town, beginning to accept the fact that there wasn’t a way to ever go back to how they were. Back to how they could have been.

“Fiddleford… I just… I wanted to say _I’m sorry_ ,” Stanford sighed, shoulders slouching, his whole demeanor a frown in defeat. Fiddleford softened, though still didn’t say anything. He was waiting for something. He didn’t know what, though it would take more than just an apology to start working towards whatever they were meant to be.

“I wanted to…” he took a step forward, and Fiddleford combed over the man with wary eyes. They hadn’t had a conversation this long – and certainly hadn’t stood this close to one another – in over a month. “I wanted to make it up to you,” he took another step, and Fiddleford realized they were close. Very close. Too close.

“Stanford-“

“No,” Stanford said, sternly, before seeing Fiddleford flinch, “No, please. Let me just…” he reached out and took Fiddleford’s hand. Fiddleford’s brow furrowed. Something was wrong. This wasn’t Stanford. But… his voice, his gentleness, it was everything that he had missed. Fiddleford’s memory kept flitting back to that day they had watched a movie, wrapped in each other, _enamored_. Not distanced from the world, though rather concentrated in it, the universe found in each other’s eyes.

That’s when Stanford’s lips were on his, and Fiddleford froze, his sketchbook dropping to the floor with a thud. He was jarred, stuck, unable to do anything but stand there while Stanford moved his lips as an effort to stimulate Fiddleford’s own. However, as much as Fiddleford wanted to continue – as much as he _wanted_ _this_ – he knew he couldn’t. He knew there had to be something else going on.

“Stanford, please, wait–“ Fiddleford tried, pushing against Stanford’s shoulders, though Stanford simply moved his hands from Fiddleford’s to his back, pulling them closer. He had always had the physical upper hand on him.

“I’ve known, Fiddleford, I’ve known for so long and I’ve waited – _we’ve_ waited – long _enough_. _Please_ , Fiddleford,” Stanford’s mouth moved to Fiddleford’s neck and mumbled against his throat. Fiddleford had to suppress a moan. He was so over stimulated, though he knew he had to… stop…

“Stanford, we haven’t…” Fiddleford groaned, about to speak, though that’s when Stanford bit against the delicate flesh, and Fiddleford found himself gasping against the pressure. “ _Stanford_ …”

Fiddleford tried to briefly assess the situation. Stanford was _kissing him_ – with intentions to do much more than just that – a sensation he had been waiting for – _aching_ for – for _years_. He couldn’t hear the tinny echo that Bill so often performed with. He didn’t see the flicks and quick jolts that his mannerisms so often accompanied. Fiddleford saw Stanford’s eyes and he saw the passion that had been vacant for _so long_. Of course, he knew Bill would be _watching_ , though he didn’t care, for in this instance, Fiddleford felt as if Stanford had chosen _him_.

Fiddleford submitted himself, finally, to Stanford’s ministrations, as he pushed Fiddleford against the wall, continuing to bite and suck along Fiddleford’s neck, moving downward, tugging his sweater and button-down along with it. Realizing he couldn’t make it any further with the pesky article of clothing in the way, Stanford ran his hands along the base of Fiddleford’s stomach before slipping them underneath the aforementioned piece. Fiddleford gasped, arching into Stanford’s touch – it was so cold, and he loved it.

Fiddleford twisted his fingers into Stanford’s hair, pressing his lips into his collarbone once more encouragingly. Stanford complied, doubling his efforts on top of running his fingers – those _fingers_ – up Fiddleford’s sides. The amount of thoughts Fiddleford had collected about those digits made this experience all too much, and he felt himself come undone under Stanford’s services.

He felt Stanford grin against his skin, and suddenly he separated away, with Fiddleford whining a little at the sudden lack of contact, the significantly cooler air than that of their passion assaulting him. Not for long, though, as soon Stanford was back, though this time lifting Fiddleford’s sweater, barely completing its removal before attending to the buttons. Fiddleford’s stomach began to flutter, his heart ready to collapse.

He was pushed roughly against the wooden wall once more, subconsciously praying he didn’t wake up the next morning with slivers in his back. However, Fiddleford groaned with the combined efforts of Stanford’s return to licking and sucking his torso, and the thoughts of just where he might be when morning comes…

Stanford brought his attention back, however, with a sharp but brief bite to Fiddleford’s nipple, while a nimble hand moved to begin tweaking the other. Fiddleford was gasping and groaning, hands finding their way under Stanford’s own trademark red sweater, raking his fingers up Stanford’s back and earning him a moan against his chest. Fiddleford felt a knee come between his legs, and it didn’t take much encouraging to him to begin rocking against the limb. Stanford chuckled once more before moving to kiss Fiddleford roughly once more, his hands sliding to cup Fiddleford’s back.

Fiddleford felt his mouth being assaulted by Stanford’s tongue, his lips being bit by his partner’s. He felt his hips being secured by Stanford’s fingers, keeping him from moving anymore before reaching back and cupping his ass, squeezing just as Stanford moved to briskly grind against the other’s crotch. Fiddleford gasped, his mouth opening more, which Stanford took as an invitation to explore more deeply, their lips finding a feverish rhythm while their hips rolled against each other’s with equal fervor.

Fiddleford suddenly felt the pressure against his pants begin to alleviate slightly as Stanford’s hand moved to undo the belt buckle. Fiddleford began to stutter.

“St-Stanford, don’t you think we should-“ though he was cut off by Stanford’s lips, smashing their mouths together once more – a little too roughly for Fiddleford’s liking – as to prevent him from being able to speak. Soon enough, Fiddleford found his pants around his ankles, Stanford’s hands moving immediately to squeeze at Fiddleford’s scantily clad hips, shoving his knee between his legs to force pressure against Fiddleford’s growing erection. Fiddleford yelped, eyes misting as he groaned against the sensation, unable to decide whether he liked it or not. He was running out of time to decide though, as he found himself panting against Standford’s shoulder, hands unable to decide whether to situate themselves on his back, shoulders, or in his hair, finally deciding on the latter.

Fiddleford decided to be bold, and, wringing his finders through Stanford’s locks and pressing their mouths together with newfound passion and confidence. He had been waiting too long for this not to take advantage of it. He began to rock his hips against Stanford’s once more, hearing him groan into his mouth, the sound reverberating against his teeth. Then, suddenly, Stanford stopped, pushing Fiddleford into the wall while his hand moved down, under his waistband, to grip Fiddleford’s member. Fiddleford cried out, unprepared for the sudden pressure in such a sensitive area. Though soon, the exclamations turned to groans, and he began a steady melody of moaning as Stanford began to slide his hand up and down Fiddleford’s cock, squeezing occasionally to earn a gasp and arching into him from Fiddleford.

“St-Stanford…” Fiddleford moaned, realizing words had since escaped him. He began feeling the build, though, pooling in his stomach as Stanford began to work faster, his other hand supporting Fiddleford’s back as to prevent the mewling man beneath him from falling.

“Fiddleford… this is _exactly_ what I wanted…” he grunted before licking up the side of Fiddleford’s neck, again earning a groan that was probably an affirmative “me too.”

Then, with a few short tugs, Fiddleford knew he had come completely undone by the hands of the man of his dreams. This man, who despite everything, had chosen _him_ , had chosen to share this moment of bliss, and vulnerability, and _honesty_ , and it was that combination of heavenly feelings that helped the man finally find release.

“ _Stanford_!” he cried out, falling into the arms of his counterpart. Feeling himself supported – in more than just a physical sense – for the first time in too long.

But that’s when he felt the world freeze.

Confused, though still in a haze of lust, Fiddleford looked up to Stanford’s eyes, expecting to find a gaze of equal idyll. However, he was met with a face of horror. And Fiddleford felt his world shatter. Just like a plate.

“Fiddleford… what…” Stanford could barely speak, jaw having dropped and eyebrows hitched in shock. That’s when it clicked for Fiddleford. _Bill_.

“Oh, my god,” Fiddleford shoved Stanford away from him. He felt like he was going to throw up. He had ruined everything – no, Bill, _Bill_ had ruined _everything_. He had done this. “I thought – I – oh, my god, Stanford, I – I’m _so sorry_ ,” Fiddleford was shaking, and he grabbed his clothes and began to walk – run – away from the scene and _forget_ , though he tripped, falling to the floor in his shame. He felt Stanford reach down, fingers brushing gently over his shoulder, and Fiddleford flinched away.

“ _Don’t touch me_!” he screamed, throat drier than he had anticipated. “Don’t ever touch me…” he sobbed out, pushing himself up and over to the next room, climbing the stairs, each step full of pain and defeat as Fiddleford felt himself break down, down…

That night he heard Stanford’s descent into the basement, where he heard yelling and screaming, the crashing of books and splintering of glass. He knew what was happening, though he didn’t care. Because he knew that no matter what, Bill had already won.

Fiddleford felt like running away into the forest, sitting beneath a frozen tree until he followed suit with the fixation – again, he sought that numbness. He just wanted away from this, away from everything… away from one particular thought that was pestering him, and would pester him, until he found a way to make himself forget. How Bill knew, though, how to _touch_ , how to make him _feel_ the way he did, was the most sickening part of it all. Because it meant, that in the end though also before any of this had even _started_ , Stanford had chosen _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Oh goooooooddddd sorry boys. Wow, I feel like a horrible person. However, if you like being a horrible person with me, feel free to follow me - I’m thinking of eventually doing a companion piece from a third-person Stanford POV. But yes. I have been thinking of this idea constantly since learning of Stanford’s deal! Poor Fiddleford - I’m sorry, man, you really got the short end of the stick on this one. I'm surprised he's not an alcoholic, b/c I know that after playing a drinking game for each time I make a play on words about the cold, I sure as hell would be one.
> 
> PS: literally feel free to talk to me about whatever gravity falls trash that you want over at my blog dailydoseoftrash(.)tumblr(.)com!!! I’m open to constructive criticism for this fic too and literally anything if you wanna just conspire about the shit Bill did in the shack. Thanks for reading!


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